Seeing

Seeing Colleen Coleman Lester He called their names. "Hey, Kate. Hey, Rhodie." Mule ears flicked and twitched at the sound of his voice. Shoulders bunched with effort as they pulled the old man and his sickle bar across the mountain meadow. Satin coats of russet and white were etched in sweat from the strain. It was mowing day. And high up on the hill, those mules knew what to do. The old man never called directions to either of the pair. Their muscled legs were slow pistons in the heat. Over the tall grasses and around through the trees and back again. The rattle of metal and the whisper of the blade were broken only by his voice. "Rhodie. Now Kate." You could tell he'd cut that meadow once or twice in his lifetime. He rode the seat of the machine like he'd been born on it. His red suspenders held up a denim washed so many times the white was coming through. A much-worn hat and long, buttoned sleeves kept off the sun. "You're a good one, Rhodie. And Kate's the mule." I am new to Appalachia. The suburbs and cities of the metropolitan Northeast and the cornfields ofIndiana haven't prepared me for this man and his mules. I know asphalt and business luncheons and how much the 1RS allows per mile. I can tell you when the soybeans are ready for harvest and who has the pole position at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. But I know nothing of a man like Ed Linville. I know nothing of mules. When the news came that I was moving to Appalachia, all I could hear were the echoes of countless jokes about hillbillies and moonshine and cousins marrying cousins. Kentucky-bashing is a favorite Hoosier pastime. I'd certainly told my share ofjokes at Kentucky's expense. And I kept on telling them as moving day drew near. But when I was alone, images of poverty and ignorance filled my thoughts. Ofrabid Christians Bible-beating the love right out ofthe New Testament. Of battered pick-ups with toothless drivers whistling at the ladies. Of broken-down sofas on the porches of the poor. Colleen C. Lester, who has an extensive background in public relations, marketing, and advertising, is news services director at Berea College. 36 Yes, the horse country was beautiful in my mind—the black fences with the mansions gracing the hills, the immaculate barns so elegantly done, I'd fantasized about living in one. And every Derby Day, rich Southern sophistication oozed through my television screen. But that wasn't the Kentucky I was moving to and I knew it. I felt shame at my stereotyping. But mostly I felt fear. I don't know when the change began. It may have started with a young man who helped us unload our moving van. With a guilelessness that was startling, he told of his father who is dying from black lung at the age offorty. How he alreadylooks like he's sixty. How he's promised to hold on until his two children have finished college. How life in the scab mines is hard. Hard. The young man doesn't think his father will be around much longer. Maybe it was the cashier at the grocery store who didn't even want to see my driver's license as I wrote the check for my purchases. "Oh, honey," she said with a grin, "we know everybody who lives in this town. And ifyour check ain't any good, we know right where to find you." Maybe it was the evening we wound through the country and stopped in a small valley to dream about a home we might build someday. The mountains rose all around us in the westering light. We could hear a creek chattering from the recent rain. And birds soared and danced in the crosswinds. There seems to be dancing everywhere ifyou know how to look. In the smiles of children on their way to class. The wave of a hand in busy traffic that means no, you go first. The girl at the counter making sure your ice cream...